


the color of my true love's hair

by simply_kelp



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Frottage, Hair Brushing, M/M, Sibling Incest, but no one's angsting about it, codependent Feanorians, hand holding, shamelessly self-indulgent and soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simply_kelp/pseuds/simply_kelp
Summary: It is more difficult now, one-handed. When they were younger, Nelyo would carefully comb out Kano’s hair and weave it into beautiful braids, though never as intricately as their cousin’s hair.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	the color of my true love's hair

Nelyo looks up to see Kano lingering at the doorway. His lips are parted just slightly, one hand resting gently on the doorframe, the other hidden by shadow and the folds of his tunic. His grey eyes are gentle, appreciative, intently observing as Nelyo combs his hair.

Nelyo can tell from the slight upturn of the corner of Kano’s mouth that he is thinking something endearingly poetic about the silver comb passing through Nelyo’s copper hair. The comb is one made by their father’s hand. It was given to their mother during their courtship and she had passed it on to her sons.

A token to remember happier times.

“The children?” Nelyo asks.

Kano’s lips rise into a fond smile and he lets out a soft sigh. “Resting.”

He slips into the room and undresses with careful, meticulous movements. Nelyo watches as each layer of fabric is removed, as each inch of skin—skin that he knows better than his own—is revealed. “Come here,” Nelyo whispers.

Careless of his brother’s lingering glances, Kano approaches and sits beside Nelyo. He shivers when Nelyo’s hand sweeps his curtain of dark hair down his back. It is more difficult now, one-handed. When they were younger, Nelyo would carefully comb out Kano’s hair and weave it into beautiful braids, though never as intricately as their cousin’s hair. He feels a stinging tightness in his chest when he allows himself to remember Kano’s hair hanging in a thick rope over his shoulder, or pulled back from his face and adorned with smaller braids. Remembers the warm, shy smile tugging at Kano’s lips—a smile that was only ever for him—when he finished.

Now Kano wears his hair unadorned.

Nelyo passes the comb to Kano. He threads his fingers through Kano’s hair, uses his thumb and forefinger to gently tease apart a tangle at the back of his neck. Kano turns the comb over in his hands, traces his fingers over the gems. They are white and glittering as diamonds, but flash fiery orange and red in starlight. There are seven gems trailing down the side of the comb. An unintended coincidence, their father had confessed.

It is strangely fitting, Nelyo thinks idly, that each of them should have been represented by a gem even before birth. Doom, he would call it, for the low hum of the Oath singing in their marrow, for the blood they can never wash from their hands, for the haunted fatigue he sometimes catches glimpses of behind Kano’s eyes.

Kano passes the comb back to him, their fingers touching. He sighs as it glides through his hair without resistance. Nelyo rests his right forearm at Kano’s waist and revels in the way his brother leans into the touch. Unthinkingly. Easily. And Nelyo can scarce remember if there was ever a time he did not. Even as children, he remembers Kano slipping into his bed, remembers holding his brother tight to his chest, his fingers buried in Kano’s hair as their mingled breath evened into sleep.

Kano twists in Nelyo’s embrace, turns so they are facing each other. He runs one of his hands through Nelyo’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. Kano presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Nelyo’s mouth. He caresses Nelyo’s cheek with the tip of his nose. His cool, slim fingers skim the waistband of Nelyo’s braies, his breath a warm tickle at Nelyo’s sensitive ear. “Come to bed, brother,” Kano murmurs huskily.

Kano rises, takes Nelyo’s hand in his and leads him to their bed. Nelyo trails his hand and his wrist up Kano’s sides, lets his fingers wander to Kano’s white throat, his thumb caressing the underside of Kano’s jaw. His brother’s sure hands remove the last of Nelyo’s clothing and draw him into bed.

He takes Kano’s hand in his, intertwines their fingers and presses their joined hands to the soft sheets beneath them. Kano wraps his legs around Nelyo, his thighs a soft, sweet pressure against Nelyo’s waist. His fingers are buried in Nelyo’s hair, his nails gently scratching at his scalp. “Ah, Maitimo,” Kano sighs between kisses.

Before Nelyo can voice his objection—the incongruity of the name still stings after all these years—Kano’s lips are on his and his tongue slips into Nelyo’s mouth to gently tease at his own. “You will always be Maitimo to me,” Kano whispers against his lips, his fingers tracing a silver scar from Nelyo’s temple to his jaw. “No matter the scars you bear, you will always be fairest to me.”

“Damn your silver tongue,” Nelyo murmurs, but there is no heat to the words.

Kano smiles up at him sweetly, the backs of his fingers running along Nelyo’s cheek. “You love my silver tongue,” he says.

“I do,” Nelyo says. The kiss they share is proof.

Kano’s fingers dance over the muscles of Nelyo’s back as if he were plucking at harp strings. Nelyo lets a low moan slip past his lips, lets it reverberate against the skin of Kano’s shoulder. Kano had once told him, ears pink and lips curved in a shy smile, that the sounds he plucked from Nelyo were the sweetest song he would ever play. Nelyo had kissed him hard until their mingled song filled the night air.

Nelyo’s skin blazes where their bodies touch. He slips his forearm under the small of Kano’s back, revels in the way Kano arches against him, at the way their chests press, the way their bodies _slide_ together so wonderfully. Then Kano kisses him so tenderly and Nelyo feels a warmth filling him that has very little to do with where their hips are touching.

He remembers the first time he held Kano, how carefully their mother had placed him into Nelyo’s folded arms. How small, how fragile, how beautiful he had been. Has always been. He gazes down at his brother. Kano’s lips are parted in a tuneless melody, his grey eyes shining like starlight. Nelyo cannot tear his eyes away, can hardly bear to even blink.

It has always been the two of them. Even before the Oath and the Doom, even before everything else had been stripped away from them. Before their kisses began to linger and their hands began to stray. Nelyo cannot remember a time he did not love Kano with every facet of his _fea_. A love so strong it aches.

“Makalaurё,” Nelyo breathes. His muscles tense, his nails biting into the back of Kano’s hand and he can only breathe helplessly against his brother’s lips. And then—

And then Kano gently cups his palm to Nelyo’s cheek, draws him down so that he can press soft kisses to the corner of Nelyo’s mouth, to his cheek, his nose, the lids of his eyes. The pad of Kano’s thumb strokes along Nelyo’s cheekbone. And Kano sighs so sweetly, the tension in his muscles melting.

Kano’s hands cling to Nelyo’s back, rubbing soothing circles along his shoulders and the back of his neck until Nelyo’s blood begins to cool. His thighs slide down to bracket Nelyo’s hips, the backs of their calves brushing as he tangles their legs together.

Nelyo braces himself on his elbow and brings his hand up to brush a stray lock of hair behind Kano’s ear. “Do you not want to—?” he asks.

“No,” Kano murmurs, “I do.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and he smiles, sheepish and mischievous, a rosy flush high on his cheeks and for a moment he looks so very _young_. “I always do. But this…” He skims his cool fingers over Nelyo’s cheek, chases after them with his lips. “…is also nice.”

“It is,” Nelyo hums in agreement. He tilts his head up so he can run his nose along Kano’s hairline. He presses a firm kiss to Kano’s forehead. It is a promise. One he had given Kano countless times since their youth, when their Father’s temperament and their brothers’ squabbles became too much, when Kano slipped into his bed for reassurance only he could give. _I will hold you, I will keep you safe_.

Kano sighs, his fingers twining into Nelyo’s hair and gently teasing at the tangles at the back of his neck. Nelyo waits patiently, pressing soft kisses to his brother’s hair, until Kano’s fingers still and withdraw, before he shifts onto his back. He draws the blankets over both of them and draws Kano flush to his side. Kano drapes himself half-over Nelyo, rests his head on Nelyo’s chest and presses his ear to the spot above Nelyo’s heart. He hums contentedly, a little tune that Nelyo half-remembers from their childhood. Was it one of the ones their mother used to sing to them? Sing to their brothers? He cannot recall.

Nelyo rests his arm along the small of Kano’s back. He lets his eyes drift close. He does not need to see to reach his fingers out to stroke the point of Kano’s ear. Kano shivers slightly and his voice catches. Nelyo grins and Kano presses his upturned lips to Nelyo’s chest. Nelyo runs his finger through Kano’s hair until the sound of Kano’s simple melody lulls him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> no excuses, shamelessly self-indulgent, I just wanted something soft and loving for these two after all they've been through...
> 
> title from the gorgeous folk song "black is the color of my true love's hair," highly recommend listening to any Nina Simone cover, especially the one with Emil Latimer (that can be found on youtube). I die every time I listen to it.


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